Five Moments That Shaped John Sheppard
by Gater101
Summary: John Sheppard's not proud of the life he had with Nancy.
1. Twenty One Years Old

**Title: **Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About  
**Summary: **John Sheppard's not proud of the life he had with Nancy.  
**Characters: **John Sheppard, Nancy Estevez & James McGinley  
**Pairing: **John/Nancy  
**Rating: **PG-15  
**A/N: **Set pre-canon. The shaping of John Sheppard

**Twenty-One Years Old**

Afterwards, he thinks that maybe it wasn't a bad idea. The hotel room – any substitute for the room he has at his father's other New York mansion – is dim but not dark and he can see the carnage of their heated collision everywhere he looks. The books he'd been reading only hours before lay strewn across the floor, swept from the small table he'd been studying at, the chair he'd been seated in knocked over on its side; clothing hung from doorknobs and drawer handles, ceiling lights and lamps. Her hair tickles his neck as he breathes, the long auburn locks twitching as he breathed. It wasn't soft, like he expected, the years of premature dying having worked up a coarseness to it that itched his skin. Her skin was still slick with sweat, hours after their session and when he looks down at her, the light dancing in from the window highlights her shoulder blades and masks the curve of her waist.

He tries to slide out from under her but she groans and murmurs and he stills, afraid she might wake up. When she settles, he tries again and finds the air much cooler out of her grasp. He reaches for the boxers strewn at the foot of the bed and slides them on before reaching for the discarded condom, wrapping it in the foil as he moved to the bin to toss it.

James had been right; she had been good fun and just what he needed. John had had to pretend he didn't know James had been sent by his father, under orders to set up John and Nancy. The old man had been trying to push him on her for years and as a last ditch effort to attempt to please his father, he'd acquiesced and agreed to meet her.

"_Come on, Sheppard, it'll be fun."_

_Sheppard looked up from the pages in front of him, numbers lingering in his vision even as he closed his eyes to rid them. He'd been studying for hours, his mind a blur with numbers and equations and theories. He blinked up at his friend and frowned at him. _

"_Where?"_

_James sighed and rolled his eyes, his hands coming out, palm up in exasperation. The pair had been friends for as long as John could remember and he knew the other man's presence at Princeton was a result of his father wishing to keep tabs on him. He looked back to the books in front of him, wondering how much time he'd wasted trying to study for the MENSA test he knew he wasn't going to accept, even if he passed. He rolled his shoulders and closed his eyes, wishing for a moments reprieve from the study side of student life. _

"_To Karbon," James said and John snorted. Karbon was the last place he wanted to go; last time he'd been there, he'd been involved in a bit of rough and tumble and he was sure he wouldn't be allowed back in. "Nancy knows the guys on the door, said she can get us in for free if we get there before eleven." _

_John raised his own exasperated eyebrow, narrowing his gaze on James. _

"_Stop trying to push this girl on me, man," he said, annoyed and turned back to the pages before him. "I don't appreciate it and it looks bad for her."_

_James grunted and dropped onto the bed, the frame creaking under his enormous weight. As a lineman for the college team, he was a big guy, most of his weight and muscle gained in the last year of school; three years later and he still wasn't used to the extra weight. _

"_For some reason she likes you, man." John rolled his eyes, remaining stubbornly mute. "Just meet her once and if you don't like her at least you'll have a reason not to see her again. If you do, then you can pay for my rent next month."_

_John scoffed a laugh at that and turned to his friend, leaning back casually in his chair. _

"_You'll stop this if I go tonight?" James' nod was tight and short. John replied with his own nod and stood, moving to the chest at the far side of the room. "I'll be ready in twenty."_

_James nodded and stood, moving to the fridge at the other end, reaching in to pull out a bottle of beer. He smirked over to John._

"_Remember you have your mane to tame; I'll be watching TV."_

_John flicked a gesture to his friend and moved off into the bathroom, glancing furtively to the open books on the table. _

_Screw MENSA. It was his father's idea anyway. _

At the doorway, he watches her as she sleeps, her head tucked into the pillow, the sheets falling from her body and allows his eyes to rove her form. She is pretty, he concedes, and she is funny. She's at Princeton, too, so John knows she has at least some intelligence behind her green eyes and not just an insatiable lust for him. She'd ridden him so hard that he was sure the bed would break and he had come harder than he had in a very long time. He can feel his body reacting to his thoughts and he pushes off from the wall. At the fridge, he winces as she makes noise at the brightness of the small light. He tries to block most of it with his body, stilling as he listens for the sound her breathing evening out.

The bottle of water condenses in his hand, the cool outer liquid dripping down his fingers and over the back of his palm. He presses it to his chest and lets the water run down to his waist band. He feels his body calm at the coolness and he sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was freak her out by waking her up for a quickie before he sent her on her way.

Without opening the bottle, he set it down on the small table and moved to pick up the scattered books and chair. He flicks through the pages of the accounting book before tossing it noiselessly onto the table. The others, equally as boring and as he moves to lift the chair, he catches sight of Nancy once again. His reaction to the sight startles him and he finds that he can't look away. The amber glow of the street lights below illuminate her tanned skin in a diaphanous glow, her relaxed features almost smiling in her slumber.

He catches himself and flicks his gaze away, setting the chair on its feet before moving off to the bathroom. There, he closes the door and flicks on the light, watching his reflection in the mirror. He'd had his hair shaved only weeks before but already it had grown back, relentless in its quest to make his life hell. He runs his fingers through it, watching as the cow licks erupt, standing on end on his short hair. Surprisingly, he didn't look rough; the scraggly growth having been shaved off before leaving the house.

Splashing cold water on his heated skin, he shivers at the contact, breathing in sharply at the contact. He'd gotten into this with the sole intention of getting him out of her system. He wasn't looking for a relationship; he doesn't know what he wants – from anything. From life, from her, from college. He does what he's told, what his father thinks is right and all he knows is that... he shakes his head and avoids his reflection. He doesn't like to think that he's a pawn in his father's games. He knows he is – he has always known. He just doesn't like to remember.

And now... Now he finds that he may actually _want _to do something that his father has urged for years and he doesn't want to do it; he doesn't think he _can _but he knows his father will see it as another concession John has made for the greater good. He knows that others will think that too.

That maybe Nancy will as well and he can't do that to her.

He knows what he has to do; what he had been intending to do when he'd slid out of bed minutes before. But he finds that now he doesn't want to. That to let her leave (to push her away) is the right thing to do. To not give into his indulgent nature is the right thing to do.

He slips out of the bathroom, leaving the light on in hopes that the brightness will rouse Nancy from her slumber. He makes deliberate noises as he moves back to the kitchen, opening his bottle of water and drinking from it nervously. Behind him, he can hear her shuffle, her light breathing permeating the room. He glances at her over his shoulder, catches her running her hand through her mussy hair and he finds his body reacting to the heavy sway of her loose breasts at the movement.

He looks away and lowers his eyes, the words he should be saying stuck in his throat. When he turns around, he can see the question in her eyes and he feels guilt kick him in the gut. She had known that this would happen; that the likely outcome of the night was him letting her leave (tossing her out, his mind supplies but he pushes that thought away) and he finds the words disappearing down his throat. When he meets her eyes, catching the vulnerability even from his distance the words disappear completely.

"John?" She asks quietly, the questions thinly veiled.

He glances to the side, searching for the words again, for the courage to do what he needs to do. But when he looks back at her, still naked and on show for him, tempting him, luring him he finds them stubbornly absent.

When he slides in behind her, his hands gliding up her waist and into her hair, he's turned on by her pleased smile. He doesn't think about how this is wrong, or that it's not the right thing to do, just that he enjoys it.

Because John Sheppard has never been good at doing what is right.


	2. Twenty Three Years Old

**Title: **Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About  
**Summary: **John Sheppard's not proud of the life he had with Nancy.  
**Characters: **John Sheppard, Nancy Estevez & Patrick Sheppard  
**Pairing: **John/Nancy  
**Rating: **PG-15  
**A/N: **Pre-Canon. The shaping of John Sheppard.

**Twenty-Three Years Old**

"John, don't do this," she whispered pleadingly in the dark room. Her warm hand touched his cool chest and he shivered at the contact. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling of the room he'd shared with Nancy for nearly a year now. They'd bought a flat together (much to his father's delight) and Sheppard still hadn't moved his stuff there from the hotel room. "It's not..."

John closed his eyes again and tried to pretend he was asleep. It was a conversation he did not want to have with her; he hadn't two months ago when he'd thought of signing up and he didn't now that he was lying in bed with her, trying to sleep and didn't think he would anytime in the near future. It was the first choice he'd made that went against his father's wishes (apart from not joining MENSA when he was nine and again when he twenty one). In the past five weeks, Nancy had seen more of John's father than John had; Patrick Sheppard had strategically avoided his son since he'd told him he was leaving the business and that he was joining the Air Force. John knew it was only a matter of time before she found out.

"_What do you mean you're leaving the business?" The words, spoken so calmly, chilled John to the bone and he felt his resolve slip away. For twenty three years he'd lived by his father's rules, relatively unquestioning and he'd only ever been privy to this voice once – only when his father had told him that their mother was dead. He looked away at the sudden memory but his father's voice snapped his attention back to him. "What do you mean?"_

_John closed his eyes for a moment but knew his father wouldn't appreciate the sign of weakness. John had made his choice; if there was __**any **__sign of weakness, his father would pick at it and pull John's reasoning apart. _

"_This isn't what I want to do." He took a breath, deep and heavy and levelled his father with a stare._

"_This business... I built this business for you, John."_

_John looked down to his hands at the confession; it was the closest to an admission of care that John had ever had from his father. He found he didn't really care for it. _

"_I know but..." He looked back up to his father who had risen from his chair and was leaning against the edge of his table, the late afternoon sun streaming in from behind, casting him in shadow. "Dave wants this; he's interested – I'm... not."_

_Patrick Sheppard pushed off from the desk and moved to the window, staring out at the city spread eagled beneath him. The opulent office had never appealed to John and he found now that the atmosphere was oppressive and warm and entirely unwelcoming. John had never been made for offices; big as his father's was or small like the cubicles in the call centre his friend had worked in throughout college. _

"_Dave isn't my oldest son." John sighed at that. Patrick Sheppard was, surprisingly, a man of tradition. To him, the family business should pass to the oldest son and the second son would be slotted in somewhere along the lines. The old man had never had favourites – he'd had the same level of disdain for both sons as they'd been growing up – but if his preference lay with anyone it was with John. "I put you through school to do this job, John – I even let you go to Princeton instead of Harvard. I let you have my house in New Jersey but you chose to stay in a hotel like some god forsaken rock-star."_

"_And Dave is at Harvard, living in your house in Boston, he's trying his hardest to be the top of his class so that you might consider him for this over me." John stood too and couldn't help but prop his hands on his hips. "He __**wants **__this; I don't."_

"_You've spoken to Dave about this?"_

_John shook his head and let out a mirthless laugh._

"_Don't try and blame him for any of this. I made my decision; I told him." John shook his head again, lifting a hand to his hair to run through it. _

_Patrick Sheppard let out a laugh, spinning from the window, pinning John with a glare._

"_And what are you going to do?" He took a step towards John, his extra two inches allowing him to tower over his son but John would not be intimidated. "What about that little apartment you've bought with Nancy?" Another step and John could feel his breath on his face; stale coffee covered by mint. "You wouldn't know what to do without money, John. Because if you do this, if you quit, you will be ex-communicated. You will not be my son."_

_John had known that this was a possibility and despite the fact that he'd tried to prepare himself for it, he found that he wasn't. That his father would choose tradition – his business – over his son was more cutting than John could ever have expected. _

_He cleared his throat and took a step back from his father, not defeated, simply resigned. _

"_I'm joining the Air Force."_

_Patrick spun away, laughing. _

"_The Air Force? You'll never handle it – you've had everything handed to you on a plate, John, you wouldn't know how to work for anything."_

_John shrugged. _

"_It's what I want to do. I want to do this and nothing you say will stop me. If I fail, I fail. I have a Masters Degree from Princeton – I'm sure I can find something to do."_

"_Not in any business in America. I will see to that."_

_John shrugged again, picking up his discarded jacket as he moved to the door._

"_Then I'll leave America." He opened the door and glanced back at his father. "But I won't fail."_

_Patrick sneered at him, unkindly._

"_You will. And you'll be back here begging for my pardon."_

_John shook his head but didn't respond. He didn't look back as he stepped over the threshold._

"_Goodbye, Patrick."_

"Why, John?" Nancy sprung from the bed suddenly, grabbing John's shirt, pulling it over her head. She looked fierce standing above him when he did eventually open his eyes, the sigh escaping his lips uncensored. "To prove a point?" She half yelled as she pulled a long robe on with great fierce. Her hair swung from side to side in a way that used to do so many bad things to his body. "Because I think you proved your point! You don't need-"

"Is it so hard for you to believe that I want to do the right thing?"

Nancy glared at him, laughing in indignation, tossing her head back in a motion most unbecoming.

"The right thing? John, joining the Air Force isn't doing the right thing!" She kneeled on the edge of the bed, bracing herself with her hands near his thigh. He looked up from her arms to her eyes but they were hidden in the blackness of the room.

"Being patriotic isn't the right thing?"

She scoffed and stood, turning from him. He could hear her deep breaths, could see the outline of her hand reach for her hair, tugging at the tresses. He rolled from the bed, sliding his jeans up his legs, allowing them to hang loose around his hips as he stood, equally as frustrated.

He waited for long minutes and when she turned to him, the moon light glistening against her face John could see tear stains on her cheeks.

"There is nothing patriotic about war, John," she said quietly, her voice small and tired. He heard her sniff, saw her wipe her nose on her sleeve and he felt a small smile creep across his face. "All this 'for God and Country' is a load of crap – it's justification for killing people; there is _no _justification for that. There is no justification for killing someone whether at war, or in walking down the street." She kneeled against the bed again and John felt his shoulder deflate at her vulnerable stance. "Before God, a killer is a killer, whether your government sanctioned it or not." She looked away and John wanted to reach out to her. "I know you, John. You won't be able to live like that."

John swallowed, his eyes restless as they danced from one dark object to the next.

"I have to do this," he stated simply, his voice flat. "This is the only thing I've ever felt like I had to do."

The words stung her, he could tell, as her shoulders shifted.

"What about me, John?" He frowned at the question. "What do I do if..." There was a sound, somewhere between a sob and a wail and it almost broke him.

He mirrored her stance, his hands steadying him as he leaned against the mattress.

"Marry me."

She looked up, her eyes void of any emotion. He kept his face equally as neutral as he watched her for any flicker, any sign of emotion.

"What?" The question, so quietly asked, so low in the room went almost unheard by him.

He hobbled across the bed on his knees until he was eye level with her, his hand rising to touch her jaw for a moment before he pulled back, leaning back to look at her.

"Marry me."

She nodded, just once and John pulled her back to bed with him. In the quiet darkness, they moved together fluidly, familiar – almost emotionless.

John knew there was something _not right _in their lack of fanfare.

But he was content with the way it was.


	3. Thirty Two Years Old

**Title: **Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About  
**Summary: **John Sheppard isn't proud of the life he had with Nancy.  
**Characters: **John Sheppard, Nancy Sheppard & James McGinley  
**Pairing: **John/Nancy  
**Rating: **PG-15; there are some gross images of war in this one.

**Thirty-Two Years Old**

With his head resting on his arms, John looked up from the bowl to Nancy who stood in the doorway watching him. He hated the look of pity in her eyes so he turned away, leaning back against the wall. His stomach still felt weak and he knew that any sudden movements, any unbidden thoughts would ignite that same rolling motion that had him fleeing his bed and kneeling over the bowl.

"I told you that you wouldn't be able to do this, John," she said quietly.

He opened his eyes to stare at her, emotionless. She tucked her thin robe tighter around her, folding her arms low across her stomach. He said nothing and looked away again, staring up to the ceiling as he bounced his head off the wall. He saw her shake her head and turn away, flicking out the hallway light as she went.

He sighed and screwed his eyes tight. He didn't _want _to block her out; he hoped that she understood that. The life he'd had in Afghanistan was something he didn't ever want to share with anyone, especially not one of the few people he cared about. He didn't want her to know about that side of him, didn't want her to know what he'd done. He rubbed his hand over his shoulder, hoping to ease the pain there. The bullet had shredded the muscle and shattered the bone. Three months later, it was still healing and the Air Force still hadn't come to a decision.

Shifting, his stomach rolled but when he gagged, nothing came. Acrid bile rose instead and he spit it out, reaching blindly to flush the evidence of his weakness away.

Down the hallway he heard the door creak, a few murmured words and he frowned. He tried to stand but his legs gave way and he slid down the wall. The door shut, louder than he knew Nancy meant and the images rose unbidden.

_Flesh, charred to the inside of the helicopter. Muscle bubbled in the heat and he gagged at the putrid stench. Holding an arm to his sleeve, he stepped into the downed chopper, reaching around for any kind of weapon. Noise on the other side of the dune alerted him to the presence of the Taliban and he was half tempted to crawl into the helicopter and play dead. A quick glance around the cramped interior of the chopper and he knew he couldn't do it. _

_He held his breath, pausing slightly as he reached for the P-90 in the half attached arms of his team mate. He gagged again, his reflexes protesting against the concoction of death and fiery metal. Behind him, the cockpit crackled but he didn't turn; didn't dare to see what he was leaving behind. He pivoted, leaning on his injured leg and he had to bite his hand to stop the scream of pain escaping. Crumpling, he didn't want to think about what he was landing on as he sat, panting, waiting for the pain to subside. Scrabbling with a box that had been under the seat, he flipped the lid and pulled out two extra clips and pocketed them, reaching for the machine gun that lay half hidden beneath a body. _

_He didn't know how he'd survived. _

He looked up when the light spilled into the bathroom. The silhouette was not Nancy but it was familiar none the less. He grunted and turned away from the light, using the toilet bowl as leverage as he hauled himself up, his legs shaking under his own weight. His shoulder screamed in protest and he rolled it, wincing as he felt something pop.

"You're a mess."

Heavily, he leaned against the sink lifting his eyes only long enough to glare at James in the mirror. He splashed water on his face, cupping his hand and scooped some cool liquid into his mouth to try and rinse the taste away.

"What do you want?"

James slid into the room, glancing out of the door with an almost imperceptible nod before it slid shut. John pretended he didn't see.

"Nancy called me when you started puking your guts up." John levelled him with a stare, which James returned.

"She shouldn't have."

James shrugged even as he nodded.

"She did and I'm here." James manoeuvred around the room, sliding the lid of the toilet down before sitting there, his suit impeccable. John rolled his eyes behind his hand. He could feel James' eyes staring at him, assessing and he leaned with his hip against the sink, arms folded over his chest. "What the hell happened out there?"

John spun away at that, avoiding his reflection.

"Nothing," he said quietly, his tone far from convincing.

"Grant says he wants to represent you if it goes to court marshal."

John tilted his head towards his friend, half smirking.

"If?" James conceded with a nod, not meeting John's eyes. "I don't need my father's help."

James looked up, the frown evident on his face even in the half darkness. He let out a bark of laughter and John turned to him, his own frown creeping across his features.

"You think it's your father that sent me here?"

John let out his own laugh and turned away, shaking his head as he sneered; "It's been the whole reason for our friendship, hasn't it? You urging me to do what my father wants, acting the friend when it suits my father."

His anger bubbled over as he thought of the friends he did have, the ones he'd left behind, the ones he'd killed. Survivor's guilt, they'd told him, could kick in at any time. Survivor's guilt, he'd been warned, manifested itself in anger to those closest. Survivor's, they'd prophesised, wished they hadn't made it back. He wasn't there yet, but he was quickly spiralling towards it he knew. He didn't wish he'd died back then, but he certainly didn't believe he deserved to be the one who survived.

"Your father," James spat, his own anger rivalling that of John's, "was sitting in his office laughing with glee when he got the news you had been court-martialled, pending further action. Your _father _has nothing to do with this." He stood, his face inches from the side of John's and John turned on him, their noses brushing with their proximity. John narrowed his eyes, his anger far from deflating. "We want to help you John."

The pity John sensed in both James' voice and eyes sparked the kindling flame and he lashed out, grabbing him by his silk lapels and shoved him against the wall. There was a crack but John didn't care who it came from. James' eyes were wide but he didn't try to fight John off, which only served to stoke the fire. He pushed and pushed, ignoring his leg's burning protest, ignoring the pleas of Nancy as she fought with his shoulder, her fingers digging into his scar.

His knees buckled and he fell to the ground in a heap, his stomach heaving and he vomited on the floor, near James' shiny shoes.

"Get out," he murmured quietly, the words lost in his racking breaths. Neither of the two moved, hovering over him, afraid to touch but more afraid to leave. "Get. _Out_," He reiterated, growling, his tone unwavering. He sensed their hesitation then saw James' shoes move out of his line of vision. He felt Nancy touch his back but he flinched from her touch, his stomach retching again. Her touch lingered for a moment longer then she was gone.

His arms gave way and he fell, his head colliding sharply with the tiles on the floor. He felt a sob rise in his throat but he pushed it down, lashing out at the ground instead. His hand would hurt in the morning, he knew, but he didn't care. Anything was better than the pain of the wounds even he couldn't see.

Minutes turned to hours and it was only when he heard the rushing of water from the faucet in the kitchen that he attempted to stand. Stiff and sore from laying huddled up on the floor, he unfolded himself slowly, fumbling through the cabinet above the sink for the Vicodin bottle the Air Force doctor had prescribed. He downed two without water and stood, staring at himself in the reflection.

He had to get over this.

In the kitchen, Nancy stood at the sink, rinsing dishes under the faucet. She turned to him as he slouched in the doorway. His Princeton sweatshirt hung low on her legs and he closed his eyes against the sight of her wearing his past. He took a step back into the hallway, ignoring her calling her name.

In the hallway, he picked up his keys and slung a jacket around his shoulders.

"I'm going for a drive," he murmured over his shoulder to her and he saw her nod. He turned back to her, swallowing the guilt that rose from his chest and took a few steps towards her. He kissed her chastely on the lips, swallowing the taste of her the brief connection offered. "I'm sorry..." he murmured quietly when he pulled back, his fingers brushing down the side of her face.

At the threshold, she called his name again and he stopped, tilting his head back to look at her.

"Be careful."

He nodded. She'd said the same thing when he'd left for Afghanistan. The Princeton shirt caught his eyes. He needed to be away; away from his past, away from those reminders, away from her.

He slipped out of the door, leaving her standing alone in the hall.


	4. Thirty Three Years Old

**Title: **Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About  
**Summary: **John Sheppard isn't proud of the life he had with Nancy.  
**Characters: **John Sheppard, Nancy Sheppard  
**Pairing: **John/Nancy  
**Rating: **PG-15

**Thirty-Three Years Old**

She slipped into bed behind him but their skin doesn't touch. He closed his eyes pretending he's asleep but he can't fool her. He felt her shift in the bed; could picture her trying to catch a glimpse of his face but he stayed still, forcing his breath even. He didn't want to talk to her; didn't think the time was right for that. So he waited, not-so-ignorant of her needs, until she sighed quietly and slipped back out of the bed. Cold air hit his back as the sheets wafted and when her footfall is quiet at the other end of the corridor, he flipped onto his back and opened his eyes.

Intermittent light flashed across the ceiling and he looked over to the partially open blinds and sighed. A cool, welcoming breeze slipped through the ajar window and he felt it wash over his face, cooling him. He shivered and pulled the sheets around his body. Since Afghanistan, he'd become accustomed to heat that even the Michigan summer heat could not compete with.

He heard the sound of water boiling in the kettle from down the hallway and he tilted his head to the door. Half tempted to join her, sit beside her as she wept, John closed his eyes against his own pain and stayed in bed.

Her pain – that of an expectant mother losing her child – he could not console, for it was a pain that symbolised his own. He felt her pain, though not in the way he knew he should. He had lashed out in anger for _her _loss, not for theirs. Because he knew it wasn't their loss and he couldn't comfort that.

He sat up, his warm feet shivering on the cool wooden floor and dropped his head into his hands.

_Twenty-Eight Years Old_

_It was a decision he knew he shouldn't have made alone but her talk of babies and futures without the Air Force had frightened him. Her need to have something to attach him to her – their wedding vows not enough was tangible in its desperation. And he resented her for it. Resented that she couldn't understand why he didn't want __**that**__, why he didn't want to bring a child into their world. A world where all he had was the Air Force and their apartment, where she went to __**his **__father when things got tough, where his father tried to dominate without consent, reminding John at every turn that he had failed. _

_Driven as a last resort to a hospital three states away, her desperation clung to him even in its absence. He felt sick at the thought of what he was about to do; knew that it was wrong for them but right for him and he knew that it was possibly the most selfish thing he would ever do in his life; something for him, to keep them apart, to retain the sanctity of his sanity. _

_He looked around the quiet waiting room, the mothers and fathers, the septuagenarians cradling their ailing hearts in their chests and he wondered what the hell he was doing. He closed his eyes against the rainbow of posters in front of his eyes about families and babies and arthritis, diabetes and MMR vaccines, MRSA warnings and flu-jab reminders knowing that if he did this, no child of his would ever have to worry about anything like that again. That there wouldn't be any children. _

_Nancy's defeated face fluttered through his mind for a brief moment and he felt his stomach roll. He couldn't do this, not to her – not to them. He stood, ready to leave when he heard his name called. Half tempted to ignore the summons, he hesitated before turning. _

_When he answered his name with a quiet nod, he hated himself. _

The child she had carried had not been John's and he couldn't find it in himself to comfort her for losing another man's baby. Because despite it all – despite the distance and the arguments and the vasectomy, he still loved her enough to stay. He had loved her enough to not give up. He sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair in an attempt to claw the memory from his mind but it stayed, her tearful words ringing in his ears.

"_I had a miscarriage John..." Her sob ricocheted off the walls and he felt a lump form in his throat, something akin to tears prickling the back of his eyes. "Our baby..."_

_The words were lost in a sob and she had folded into his arms, her tears soaking through his shirt. He gulped, his arms automatically wrapping around her but he knew the gesture lacked any emotion. She sobbed and wailed, her cries boring holes into his heart that he knew would never heal. _

Below, a car horn blared and he looked up, feeling his breath hitch in his throat again. He could hear her moving about in the halls, her soft cries making their way to his ears. The sound ached, vibrating in his chest and he stood. As he padded down the hall, he thought about what he'd done, thought about telling her. If it had been wrong to make the decision without her, it wasn't right to tell her now so he slid quietly onto the sofa beside her, his arm rising only long enough for his fingers to ghost over her back before they fell back to his lap.

"I know..." she said, hiccupping slightly. "I know you've never been any good at this," she continued quietly, not looking at him as she fiddled with the tab of her tea bag, twisting the cup in her hands. "But please don't shut me out now."

He let out a breath, quick and loud, his finger rising to scratch at the side of his head. He rested his wrists on his teas, entwining his fingers as they dangled in the air. He saw her hand waver slightly, almost as though she was reaching out to him, but she pulled back, equally resistant to human contact.

"I can't grieve for a child I never wanted," he said and there was no lie to it. He had never wanted a child and he was sure that if the child had been his, he wouldn't have joined in her tears. If she was surprised by his words, she didn't vocalise it but John couldn't watch as more tears fell from her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She turned, her face contorted with bitterness. "For what?" She asked, angry and John knew she felt she had reason to be.

He thought again about telling her, about calling her on her indiscretion but he managed to recall the words before they slipped past his tongue and into the air. He knew she didn't need that and despite the knowledge that she'd betrayed their vows, he cared enough about her to let her grieve for their child.

"I know how much you wanted this."

She nodded, defeated and she looked away, to a point that John could not see. In the dim glow of the solitary lamp, her beauty was resonant, quiet – tainted. He didn't want to remember her like that.

He didn't say anything and she replied in kind. He could feel the distance growing, frayed bonds they'd tried to hold onto for too long unravelling in their loose grip. He dropped his head slightly and sighed, wishing the last year of his life away. Afghanistan had changed him; it had changed them and he knew they both knew it. He wished in that moment that he'd did the right thing all those years ago before any of this had happened. He wished he'd been strong enough back then to withstand the urges of his body. He wished he'd loved her better, that she'd loved him more.

He knew none of it would have mattered.

"It's over, isn't it?" She said sometime later when the gold rays of the only just retired sun spurted over the horizon, a thin wash over their faces.

She stood as he nodded, her long forgotten tea cup clinking as it touched the glass coffee table. He leaned forward, wished to touch her leg as she hovered in front of him but he didn't. He looked up and met her eyes; saw there the raw pain he knew she would see mirrored in his if only she wasn't already so consumed in grief. Perhaps not the best time to end it, John knew it was the only way.

She moved passed him, the moment of indecision past, and he didn't follow her. He heard the door to the bathroom click shut, the sound of rushing water moments later. An ache enveloped his chest but he fought passed it, pushed it down, quelled the waves of fear with knowledge that _this time _he was doing the right thing.

It was all that mattered.


	5. Thirty Five Years Old

**Title: **Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About  
**Summary: **John Sheppard isn't proud of the life he had with Nancy.  
**Characters: **John Sheppard  
**Pairing: **John/Nancy  
**Rating: **PG-15

**Thirty-Five Years Old**

The cold, meant as a punishment, was a reprieve for John. After the bristling heat of Afghanistan and the stifling humidity of his last summer in Michigan, John revelled in the chill air that whistled across his frozen tundra. Mindless flights, transporting scientists from one top secret locale to the next were a sanctuary from the crazed dodge missions of the Far East, even if the banter was non-existent. He didn't know what the international geek meeting off of McMurdo was for and neither did he care to. He'd deliberately failed the MENSA test twice for a reason. But even the scientific techno-babble of the scientists couldn't breach John's ivory fortress.

He glanced up from his book (one of the less geeky scientists had taken a liking to him and offered him _War & Peace _in exchange for John's last chocolate bar) and let his eyes fall on the thick brown envelope that rested on the small desk. He picked up his cup of coffee again, sipping from it even as his eyes stayed on the envelope. He'd opened it days before, curious as to the contents before he'd sealed it shut, sat it on his desk and joined the other men unfortunate enough to share his barracks. They never discussed why they'd been sent there to the ends of the Earth but it was known that it was meant as a punishment; nothing else need be said.

The others couldn't wait to leave while John dreaded going back.

_War & Peace _weighed heavily on his wrist as he glanced back to the envelope. His gut clenched as he slid his bookmark into place and shut the book, tucking it to the side of his pillow. Setting down the cup, John kneeled on the bed and reached for the envelope, heavier than he remembered it being. Sitting back, he lifted his knees, using them as a desk and closed his eyes.

While it had been a mutual decision, it still hurt like hell to know that with one signature (okay, maybe more than one) he was signing away the last nine-years of his life. He hadn't seen Nancy socially since she had moved into one of John's father's apartments back in New York, their only encounter having been the meeting with their lawyer a week before John's trial. He hadn't called to tell her he'd be leaving, that she wouldn't be able to contact him but he didn't think she would anyway. They hadn't been friends before their marriage; they had no need to pretend they were now.

The pain of losing people was not new to John; his mother when he was ten, his grand-parents when he was twelve, thirteen and sixteen, his friends when he was twenty eight... But losing Nancy was different. He'd shared nine years of his life with her, he had loved her and he had lost her. But she hadn't died, she hadn't been torn away from him; they had made the conscious decision to end their relationship and he thought that maybe that was even harder. To live with the knowledge that they had _chosen _to end their marriage, that they had failed was difficult.

He didn't blame her for breaking the bonds of their marriage; he knew he couldn't have been easy to live with, especially after Afghanistan. But it didn't help to temper the pain that he had tried more than she had. Objectively, he knew she had tried equally as hard – if not more so – as him but when it really mattered, when it came to _them... _he hadn't given up. He couldn't remember ever thinking that life might be better or easier without her; he knew he'd made some wrong decisions but he had never thought they wouldn't make it through. Not until she'd told him about the baby (and consequently the affair) had he even considered that things weren't right – that they hadn't been for some time, that they wouldn't be ever again. Not for them, at least.

Opening his eyes, he flipped the envelope upside down and the contents slid out. The thick wad of paper shone brightly in the lamp light, the printed words looking unnaturally dark against the alabaster pages. Along the edges, Nancy had attached page-mark notes and he smiled at her consideration. Flipping to the first, he read her signature over and over again.

_Nancy Estevez. _

He bit his lip and closed his eyes, his head thudding against the wall behind him. She hadn't been Nancy Estevez for seven years and the sight of the name that his had taken place of stung more than he would ever admit. He rummaged blindly in his desk for a pen and, finding one, he made quick work of the six signatures required. He didn't stop to think about what he was doing, scared that if he did he'd stop, that he'd think, that he'd ask her to try again.

Nancy had told him once that life happened in moments; there's was over now.

Instead of shredding the pages like he so desperately wanted to do, he tore a piece of paper from the legal pad in his drawer, the pen hovering over it as he decided what to write. Words of regret formed in his mind but he quickly pushed them away, along with the words of love and unhappiness. He glanced around the room, his breath quick, he bit his lip and scrawled one word.

Quickly, he tore the sticky label from the back piece of paper and stuck it over the address on the front of the envelope. He slid the pages back into their cover and let out a breath that was shakier than he'd have liked. He looked down to the piece of paper still in his lap and picked it up, wondering if it was enough.

Deciding it had to be, he folded it over and stuffed it into the envelope, sealing it shut.

He sat in silence for a long while after that, staring at the envelope, fighting the urge to rip it open and take it all back. He reached for it again when someone knocked on his door.

"Sheppard, you're up," the voice of his Colonel ordered brusquely through the door and Sheppard stuffed the envelope under his pillow, beside _War & Peace._

In minutes, he was walking to the heli-pad, wrapped up tight against the cold. As he approached, there was not the usual gaggle of geeks but a lone figure, tall and lean, dark against the stark white background. Approaching, Sheppard saw the glint of silver from the other man's hair and his posture immediately straightened.

Beside his bird, the other man turned to Sheppard and smile crookedly, his tan face older than Sheppard had assumed, more open than he'd expected.

"You Sheppard?"

Sheppard nodded and flicked off a hasty salute.

"Yes, sir."

The other man returned the salute sloppily and Sheppard smiled internally at the half-hearted gesture.

"General Jack O'Neill," the man said and Sheppard nodded, his fingers itching to salute the rank again but O'Neill waved him away. "That's some bird you've got here, Sheppard."

Sheppard nodded and smiled as he turned to his helicopter, the black hull glinting against the rays of sun that filtered down from the vast expanse of sky above.

"Yes, sir," he responded as he made his way around the bird, checking, assessing. In the cock-pit his assessment continued, the pre-flight checks so much a part of him that he needn't think his actions over. The familiarity soothed him, the exchanged words of adoration for the skies and the choppers between him and the General a moment of light-heartedness that he hadn't expected. He was glad of O'Neill's past as a pilot; the scientists had squabbled over the length of time it took to do the checks but O'Neill held back, questioning only once or twice some new devices that were being tested; Sheppard couldn't help but feel O'Neill was humouring him and for the first time, he truly wondered what was going on inside the base he so often flew to.

He shook the thought aside and turned to O'Neill smiling, inviting his superior aboard and O'Neill jumped quickly aboard. Last minutes checks and clearances were given and Sheppard lifted the bird from the ground with a gentle sigh. As he soared over the frozen tundra below, the sky cerulean around him, he began to think that life without Nancy wouldn't be so bad after all.

As he fought against the Antarctic winds, he smiled.

The cold reminded John Sheppard that he was alive.


End file.
